Can't You Hear the Thunder?
by TheFullmetalSociopath
Summary: Lucas Durand lives a perfectly normal life. Sure, most guys don't historically have long hair and teach ballet- but it's the 21st century! So he's completely normal, in every way. Well, except that he's Glorfindel, an immortal elf warrior. But no one knows that. But when aliens invade New York Glorfindel attracts the attention of none other than Nick Fury. That changes things.
1. The Incident

**_May 4, 2012_**

**_297 Lafayette Street_**

**_New York, NY_**

**_United States of America_**

Amongst the hustle and bustle of New York City was nestled a red-stone building, fading brick painstakingly restored to a splendor that drew the eyes of countless passerby, accented with white arches bordering every window, giving it a regal air which stood out from the rest of the buildings on the block. On such a street as this one it almost seemed as if man's mastery over nature was complete— flawless in a way only the modern world of machinery could achieve. Any regular of that particular red stone building would simply laugh 'Not so!' They may even go so far as to claim that nature was the most charming facet of their beloved red stone building, manifested through a particularly stubborn plant, a vine of some indiscernible origin and species, which had managed to climb its way up to nearly the uppermost reaches of the building, curling elegantly around the manufactured lines of the building. But how did it get there? some ask. Why did they let it grow? Why not just weed it out? Regulars laugh, and shake their heads.

The vine almost carpeted a side of the building by now, and it had reached its vibrant tendrils around the corner of the building to cradle a pristine sign. It was a deep green, with golden letters proudly proclaiming that this proud building was, indeed, _Le Tournesol Academy of Dance_— known more simply as The Sunflower Academy. A pretentious name, perhaps, but most would not dispute that dancers tend to be a pretentious crowd. And within that exclusive community, even in such a competitive atmosphere as the famed Big Apple, home to Broadway and enough bodies on the sidewalk vibrating with talent to daunt any newcomer, it is even said that this little academia is a veritable garden for up and coming stars.

_Le Tournesol_ was, among other things, one of the most popular dance academies on Manhattan Island. Nestled on the corner of Lafayette and 7th, it was home to many dancers of all ages. The old building was host to a fantastic array of people, from countless backgrounds, and with as many unique personalities as stars in the sky…

CRASH!

CLANG!

…some, more unique than others.

"Luke!"

"Lucas!"

"Ducard you damned lunatic!"

"For Heaven's sake, don't you ever learn?!"

A chorus of voices rose up in a berating cacophony against one Lucas Ducard, talented dance instructor, reckless twenty-something, and resident klutz. A man who currently could only grin cheekily up at his friends and coworkers, trapped as he was under nothing short of a few boxes of equipment he had been carrying in (much too many for one trip, this man never _learns_), a chair, a metal shelving unit, and all complete with a pair of ballet slippers twisted around his head like a baby's bonnet. And were those twigs in his hair? How the _hell_?

(The regulars at _Le Tournesol_, the Sunflower Academy, had long since learned not to question this particular enigma.)

One Lucas Durand, newly freed from the results of his latest blunder and miraculously free of injury, was currently occupying his time with grinning at one of his friends. Grinning, as in attempting to dissuade a reoccurring lecture from commencing (yet again!), and friend, as in his boss. The director of Le Tournesol, the (former) queen of New York ballet, the madwoman herself: Madame Yvonne Beaulieu. She stood at an imposing 5'4" thin as a whip with twice as much bite, with chestnut brown hair graying in dignified streaks and delicate crows feet gracing her aged face.

"Miss Yvonne! Good morning!" He started brightly. "I would just like to say that your hair looks _wonderful_ toda-"

"Enough, _fainéant_," Madame Beaulieu snapped. "Don't try to to flatter me, you idiot. You're late for your class already."

"Oh, right, Madame B! But, uh, I really did want to apologize…"

"It is forgiven, you idiot! Now what am I paying you for? Get going!"

"Yes, Madame B!" Lucas was already speeding past her, making a mad dash for the stairwell. Before he reached it, however, he skidded to a halt and backtracked to the front desk, setting down a latte for Amy and flashing her a blinding smile (of all the things that escaped from that catastrophe of an entrance, it was that?). And, casting a fearful glance at the Madame, he sped upstairs to the studios, laughter fading as he went.

The Madame simply shook her head.

Of the many, many dancers who toed over the wooden studio floors, ingrained their sweat and tears of frustration and joy into the woodwork, some were specially treasured by certain instructors. Lucas Ducard, as much as he treated every student (or sunflower, as he sometimes dubbed them, to their equal joy and dismay) with fairness, was still prone to this certain weakness. His current Achilles heel: Vasily Sorokin.

Vasily was pale, with short mousy brown hair and a smattering of freckles across his cheeks. At seventeen he was still relatively small for his age, and quiet enough that he faded into the background. Or at least, he used to. Lucas had made it his personal mission to 'get him out of his shell'— a plan met at first with incredulity from other instructors, who had known the boy since he was just a child and had similarly tried to get Vasily to open up, but with minimal success. Lucas, as bullheaded and full of sunshine as he was, somehow had gotten the soft, quiet boy in the advanced ballet class who always frowned while he danced, nearly terrified to make a false twitch, to _smile._

Currently, after nearly a year under Instructor Durand's tutelage, Vasily had managed to open up to his fellow dancers. He was talking to Madeline and Eiji while doing their stretches (Lucas was late so often that they had adapted to doing it on their own when the clock struck 3:00) when, lo and behold, the sound of pounding feet came from the hallway.

"Hiya, Sunflowers!" Lucas threw open the door and beamed at his students. Vasily rolled his eyes. 'Sunflowers'— of all the things he could call them!

"Hi Lucas," the class chorused. Lucas quickly sat down his bag stood in front of the class.

"So!" He began, clapping his hands. "I seem to be late again as it is…" he trailed off, craning his neck backwards to look at the clock directly above him and drawing some laughs from the dancers, "3:15! My, how time flies. And I would guess that you're all done with your stretches?" A sea of nods answered him.

"Good!" He smiled, spinning swiftly towards the stereo to set the music. "Then let's get started!"

It was 3:45 when it started. Nothing that anyone really would have noticed, at first, caught up in the music and the routine as they were, but the thing that alarmed them was simple— Lucas stopped. He closed his mouth mid sentence, standing absolutely still, the smile sliding off his face, replaced by furrowed brows and a drawn expression. The studio went completely silent in just a few moments, and then Vasily noticed it.

The birds had stopped singing.

Normally that would be no cause for concern, but Lucas, always smiling, goofy, happy-go-lucky Lucas, was for once completely serious. And that was cause for alarm.

Lucas strode to the windows and threw them open, leaning out. Vasily and the others quickly followed suit, peering out the glass and crowding behind Lucas.

Vasily couldn't help but gasp in horror at what he saw.

A hole, a hole had opened up in the sky. A hole (a portal?) had appeared over the island of Manhattan! It was black as the abyss and ringed with blue fire, angry clouds swirling around a nonexistent cyclone, with a pulsing beam of pure light connecting it to the roof of a skyscraper. And… and _things_ poured into the sky from the hole. From this distance, they looked like ants or flying bugs, but there were hundreds, thousands, a swarm of black dots converging on the city. Vasily had a feeling that they would not be so harmless as bugs.

He stood frozen, shock crystallizing like ice in his veins. This wasn't possible. This couldn't be happening. It just _couldn't. _That same assertion ran though his mind in a desperate mantra.

—And then Lucas started moving.

"Come on!" He barked, expression urgent. "Everyone, get your things. We have to get somewhere safe!" That managed to snap them out of their daze.

Lucas dashed to the studio door, wrenching it open and nearly crashing into Jackie, the jazz instructor. "Did you see—?" Her brief question was answered with a nod. As one entity, the second floor instructors led their dancers down the stairs, joining a flowing stream of scared students and instructors, who were only marginally better at hiding their fear. One started to usher the kids through the front door, but Lucas stopped him with a strict rejection.

"We need to get somewhere underground!" He exclaimed.

"They need to go home!" Reggie returned.

"They need to stay off the streets! Those _things_ will hardly care that they are children." And wasn't that a comforting thought? One of the little girls from the beginning ballet class, who couldn't have been older than five, with her brown hair up in piggy-tails and dressed in a bright pink tutu, began crying. Vasily did the only thing that came to mind, and scooped her up, setting her against his hip and hugging her. It had always worked on his baby sister.

"What's your name?" He whispered. The instructors were still debating on where to take the students. Luke's and Reggie's voices had become nearly overwhelmed by the others'. The entire lobby and first floor was packed with students, except for the small area around the front desk taken up by the 'adults.' Most of the students from the upper floors were crowded onto the stairs, leaned over the railing to listen to the argument, some looking out the windows, trying to glimpse the changed sky.

"Chloe," she whispered. "I'm scared!" She buried her face into his shoulder.

"It's okay," Vasily said. "It'll be okay…" God, he hoped it would be.

"Quiet! All of you!" A clear voice rang out from above. Madame B, furious and deathly calm at once, stomped down the staircase. Students parted for her like the Red Sea. "_Fainéant!_ I thought you at least would have a head on your shoulders. Get everyone to the basement!"

Everyone stared at her, in a sort brain dead silence. Reggie and Lucas looked like children caught with hands in the cookie jar, despite the grave situation. Lucas opened his mouth to protest (obviously that of course he wasn't stupid, he was arguing for exactly that, it was _Reggie_ who was stupid)—

"_Maintenant!" _Madame B bellowed. "Now!"

And as if they had been struck by lightning, students and instructors alike jumped to life and streamed to the basement.

The basement was dark and unfinished, really just a box of cold grey concrete. It was crowded with boxes of costumes, equipment, and countless other objects that had found their way down here over the years. As such, it was very crowded.

Vasily was huddled in the corner closest to the staircase, with Madeline, Eiji, and the rest in his class. Chloe was still huddled close with him, crying as silently as she could into his shirt. Lucas and Reggie leaned against the wall close to them, eyes darting to the staircase every now and then. Well, that was what everyone's eyes were doing, ever since the noises had started. And the shaking.

A muffled explosion, a crash, and ugly, inhuman growls and roars, faint but not faint enough, reached their ears. The room shook again, and dust fluttered down from the ceiling. Everyone huddled closer to each other.

Another explosion sounded, closer than before. And then Vasily heard those awful, chattering growls again— too close. Sounds, creaking, the high pitched whine of whatever the _things_ carried with them. They were in the building.

Everyone watched the staircase, fearful.

Footsteps grew louder, closer, overhead.

A sudden shuffle of movement beside him nearly made Vasily scream. But it was only Lucas. Lucas, who was looking at the door with more intent than fear, who was standing up and starting towards the stairs, when he should really be crouching down and staying quiet.

Vasily grabbed the edge of Luke's shirt. _Don't_, he mouthed, shaking his head. He knew his eyes were filled with fear. Lucas only looked at him. That look was enough. The steel in his eye was all the answer Vasily needed.

_Please,_ he thought, letting the shirt slip from his fingers. Lucas walked to the staircase. The sounds were louder now. With graceful silence Lucas treaded up the stairs. All their eyes followed him up, up, until he disappeared, shutting the door silently behind him.

_Don't die._

It had been a long time since Vasily had seen Lucas. Really, it couldn't have been longer than an hour, probably closer to thirty minutes, but it felt like an eternity. At first, when Lucas had just rushed upstairs to draw those monster things away, distract them, fight them, whatever, there had been a flurry of noises. A series of thumps, thuds, growls, an inhuman roar and a high pitched whine and what must have been the discharge of some sort of alien weapon. What had followed had sounded like a fight, however brief, and then footsteps had thundered up to the upper floors. Vasily hadn't been able to make out much after that. Just more of the same roars and growls, that sinister high pitched whine and thrum, a serious of shouts, breaking glass, and a battle cry.

That had been a long time ago though. Maybe Vasily or someone else should have gone after him, but no one had. After all, it wasn't like they could fight those things and win. And they didn't have that kind of rash courage that Lucas did.

Now, over the last few minutes, even all the peripheral sounds had gone silent. There had been a peak just a few minutes before— everything was so loud it sounded as if they were in the eye of a hurricane— and then, everything suddenly stopped, save for a few earthshaking rumblings, which sounded like airplanes were hitting the ground outside.

But now everything was quiet.

That could only mean two things. Either they had won, or those _things_ had. Everyone held their breath, hoping against hope that it was the former. It had to be.

Footsteps broke the silence, a jarring _thump, thump, thump_ that mirrored the pounding of Vasily's heart. The door to the basement creaked open, broken glass tinkling and crunching as whoever was above them moved.

No one moved. Vasily could only pray that he would see…

Lucas came into view.

Vasily wanted to cry. He wanted to shout in joy. He wanted to run up and hug Lucas, appearances be damned, because he hadn't though he would see him alive again. But after that initial elation a dull horror crept in because— well, because Lucas looked awful. His normally pristine blond hair was pulled almost completely out of its ponytail, he was covered in dirt and grime and small bleeding cuts, and he had large red marks that looked like they would bruise terribly.

But he was alive!

And all at once, everyone seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. Lucas smiled, tired and hurt, but it was still his wonderful, normal, happy-go-lucky smile. Everything would be okay. Vasily felt a smile spread to his own lips. Everything was going to be okay.

**_One year later…_**

**_"_****_The Triskelion" S.H.I.E.L.D. Headquarters_**

**_Washington D.C. _**

**_United States of America_**

"Oh." Agent Myers squinted closer at his computer screen. "Oh, oh no."

"What?" Agent Martin leaned over his shoulder, popping her (prohibited! unprofessional!) gum by his ear. "Something wrong?"

"Take a look at this." He rewound the video and pushed his chair back a bit, knowing very well that Martin would just push him out of the way anyways. Martin twisted around in her seat and actually looked at his screen now. Her eyes narrowed and her lips tipped down into a frown when she saw that it was, of course, more of those god-awful recordings from the Incident. They, as lower level, walked over ants in a vast organization had been part of the force assigned to comb through every single traffic camera, security footage, _whatever _SHIELD had somehow got their dirty little hands on. And, even a year later, they weren't even halfway through. With an entire department devoted to this shit!

"I swear Myers, if this is more weird Chitauri bullshit, I've told you before, just document the activity, give the info to the department in charge of cleanup if they left anything behind!" She shook her head in disgust (fond exasperation) and began to retreat.

"No, this is serious Martin. This is different." Myers was, as always, completely serious. Nevertheless, Martin turned back to the screen, and clicked play.

The grainy video sputtered to life, image quality not the worst she had seen, but far from the best. It was focused on a couple buildings on a deserted street, apart from, you know, the aliens invading the city. Five of them, to be exact, were in the frame. After some sort of signal (which Martin had learned after hundreds of mind numbing hours of observation meant roughly "there are people to kill in here"), one of them entered the nearest building, freaky alien gun in hand.

A few seconds went by on the video.

"Myers, this is literally the same shit we've seen for the past year, wha-"

"Just keep watching."

So she did.

And, of course, not much later (because according to _protocol_ they weren't allowed to skip forward on any video, ever) she saw what had spooked Myers.

Out of the second story window of the building the Chitauri had entered crashed two figures. One of them, now obviously a human male, tussled with the alien as they landed on the ground. He had pushed the alien out the window, using it to cushion his fall. Smart (for a civilian). And then promptly stood up, backed away from the alien, and assumed a defensive stance, brandishing… was that a knife? Maybe not so smart (desperate, brave maybe). A knife wouldn't do shit to a Chitauri soldier. After all, there was a reason that Agent Barton had only ever shot them in the eyes— they were like the Nemean Lion, they had almost no vulnerability, their skin was as hard as rock, they—

What.

The Chitauri soldier the man had been fighting was now headless, dead, and draining black gunk into the street, while four more angry aliens closed in on the guy who had just. Decapitated a Chitauri.

What. The. Fuck.

Martin, of course, voiced her opinion. Myers, obviously too caught up in the moment to nag at her for cursing, only nodded.

"Do you think that could have been a fluke?" He asked. The man was still battling Chitauri on the screen (three were dead now).

Martin shook her head. "Theres no way." They had gone over countless videos of the attack, from every possible angle, seen more than the people on the ground probably had. There had never been a single instance where someone had been able to pierce Chitauri skin and actually kill one without A.) turning their own weapons on them (anyone competent), B.) aiming for their eyes (Barton, obviously), or C.) using copious amounts of blunt trauma (none other than the Avengers heavyweights, Hulk and Thor). Until now.

Agent Martin gulped. Had the room gotten colder, suddenly?

"Myers?" She said faintly.

"Yeah?"

"I think this is above our pay grade."

"Yeah."

Director Fury was a calm man. Intense? Of course. Dangerous? You bet your sorry ass. Hell-bent on anything he set his mind to? Anyone who'd met him for five minutes could vouch for that. But patient? No, Nicholas J. Fury was not an overly patient man.

Which saw him to his current situation, where the only alleviation for his budding headache was pinching the bridge of his nose and muttering curses under his breath. It wasn't working very well.

"Hill, why didn't we know about this sooner?"

"Sir,"Agent Maria Hill looked up from her clipboard, expression a little pinched. "The division in charge of analyzing video evidence from the Incident had nearly three years worth of film to process. It makes sense, but—"

"I know that!" He cut her off with a tired wave of his hand. "What I wanna know is how we haven't had any record of this guy, no sightings, no nothing?"

"It's entirely possible that he simply was never active before the event."

"Hill." Fury nodded towards a tablet, still replaying the fight between one man with a small knife and five iron-skinned aliens. A fight with an outcome that should have been impossible. "No one learns to fight like that without being _active_."

Hill tilted her head, eyes calculating. "So you're saying he's a soldier?"

"No. I'm saying he's a warrior."


	2. Director Fury Experiences Culture Shock

**_May 11, 2013_**

**_297 Lafayette Street_**

**_New York, NY_**

**_United States of America_**

Nicholas J. Fury was a dignified man. He had to be, obviously, as he was not only a high ranking member of an highly secretive intelligence organization, but also as a Director of said organization. As such, cursing up a storm when inconvenienced by New York City's morning traffic jam (in particular the ancient Honda Accord which kept slamming on its brakes for no apparent reason directly in front of him), was, of course, unbecoming.

So the cursing was, _almost_, strictly internalized.

Red brake lights and a now stationary rusted out bumper with a sticker proudly displaying a stick figure family and some obscure reference to a show Fury didn't have time or patience for filled his vision. He hit the brakes again, clenching his teeth.

"_Mother_fu-"

"Sir," Agent Hill's voice sounded very nearly like a warning. "This is the place."

And sure enough, to their left was a cozy little brick building with antique styling and an overgrown green carpet of vines stretching across an entire side of the building. It was clean to what was clearly the point of obsession, and so frilly and feminine from just the outside that Fury was almost nauseous. But the Director of SHIELD didn't get nauseous at the sight of bright pink signs announcing ballet and tumbling courses for toddlers, or neon pink and sparkling tutus for sale, or pictures of snot-nosed kids in pigtails and pastel colors stumbling around a stage. Of course not. Horrifyingly (for any lesser man) the sign did indeed mark the place as _Le Tournesol Academy of Dance_. In other words, a place Fury hadn't thought he would ever be caught dead walking into. Which he was now walking into.

"Sir, what I don't understand is why you had to come here in person," Hill began. Fury had barely noticed parking the car, underneath the haze of regret clouding his mind.

"I've just got this feeling," he said. "A hunch." Fury didn't have to look at Hill to know she was looking at him in a way that indicated she didn't have much faith in 'a hunch.'

"Trust me, Hill." He popped open the car door and strode towards the front doors of _Le Tournesol_. "This guy needs to be treated with respect. Caution."

"So you're saying this is like the Avengers recruitments, before?" Hill asked. She was right, but also so wrong. This guy was worse. So, so much worse than any wacked-out, screwed-up, discombobulated emotional wreck the Avengers had thrown at him during those agonizing recruitment talks. Yes, those guys were the "Earths Greatest Defenders," or whatever the hell the press was calling them now. Yeah, they were powerful, downright scary when caught in the wrong mood. And yet… Fury had always looked at them from a slightly different angle. For a guy who dealt with things most people wouldn't even be able to comprehend as far as intensity on the crazy scale went, he'd never been much intimidated by the Avengers. Oddly enough, in his eyes they'd become lost souls, dangerous in the way that volatile foster children were, displaced and full of misplaced anger. But that was just it. The Avengers were so similar to kids they were scary— not a clue in the three brain cells shared between them what the hell they were doing 95% of the time. And that certainly hadn't changed, before or after the Incident. That bunch had always left behind a trail a mile wide, as easy to follow as a bunch of preschoolers drenched in neon paint and set loose in a china shop.

Lucas Ducard, the unassuming, impossible, normal guy from New York City was nothing like that. Completely under the radar until his people were threatened, Ducard had only shown his claws when the danger was on his doorstep. He was fully trained, ready for action. Ready to kill. And Fury hadn't heard a _whisper_ of him.

"We have nothing on this guy," he said at length. "Except that he's not normal, and too damn good at killing aliens to be a civilian."

The bell chimed as he opened the door.

Fury was not nervous. Men who had stared gods in the eye and been the last to look away did not get nervous when interrogating _ballet instructors._

"And five, six, seven, eight," Lucas counted out a tempo again, going through a particularly challenging sequence with the class again. Rehearsals for this performance were nearly finished. Really, all they were doing now was polishing any imperfections and tying up loose ends. The routine was to a medley of Michael Jackson hits. Unusual? Yeah. Unprofessional? Probably. But they had been working on this for almost a year, a fun, pick-me-up conceived after the work sweeping away the rubble of the "Incident" had finished. No one in their right mind would blame them for a little lightheartedness.

(Eiji had even figured out how to moon walk in pointe shoes!)

"Alright!" He clapped his hands, signaling that they could stop. "That was really good. You guys want to go through it with music, from the top?"

"Yes!" Was the general consensus, with a few exhausted groans of "please" mixed in, and one vehement "oh, thank _god._"

(Yeah, Madeline, thanks.)

Lucas laughed brightly, and waited for them to get back into position. He started the music.

Madeline spun to the center first, moving in time with the opening keys of _Billie Jean_. Lucas allowed his mind to wander as the dancers worked, thinking back to what had started such an unconventional number. Goodness knows the Madame almost had his head for it. After all, Jackson was a far cry from Bach or Tchaikovsky or Vivaldi's _The Four Seasons. _Yeah, after Manhattan got wrecked by bloodthirsty monsters from the Void? Even the Madame, spartan as she could be, had been forced to admit that they all needed something that wasn't so serious. Having fun wasn't a sin, after all.

Kelsey was the next in the spotlight, shortest of their class and packing more muscles and fire than the rest combined, complimenting her spotlight in _Beat It_ with an impressive roundhouse kick. That one had only been added this past week, for an extra bit of flair. As such, Madame B hadn't seen it yet, and if Lucas had any intentions of keeping it in the show (which he did) the Madame wouldn't hear about it until it was too late to change the routine. Preferably at the concert itself.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, insistent and angry. If he startled a bit, well, no one was watching. He still wasn't sure if he loved or hated the damn things. Never taking his eyes off his dancers, he fished his phone out of his pocket. The music had already cycled to _Smooth Criminal_, where Eiji took the lead, moon walking onto center stage. Lucas was never going to figure out how he did that.

Finally Lucas glanced down at his phone. It was a text from Amy, at the front desk. Well, more a warning, for all the sense it made.

_Men in Black looking dude with an eyepatch asked for you. Flashed some official looking ID. He's on his way up. Sorry._

Well wasn't that just fantastic?

Before Lucas could type out a response Amy added, _I'll let the Mme. know. _

Getting Madame B involved. Even better!

Lucas wasn't about to interrupt his class's run through though. They were doing so well, and he saw no need to alarm them just yet. So he pocketed his phone, just in time to see Vasily take center with the final song in the routine _Thriller. _Vasily simply owned the stage, a natural grace and magnetism following him through even the jaunty choreography that went along with his part.

_~Darkness falls across the land, the midnight hour is close at hand~_

The other dancers acted as the pop culture "zombies" which had appeared in the original music video— in all their comical shuffling and pose-striking glory, closing in on Vasily. It was actually quite funny, in an odd way.

_~The foulest stench is in the air, the funk of forty-thousand years~_

Vasily fell to his knees dramatically, the other dancers reaching out to grasp at him in a wall of groping hands.

Lucas heard two sets of footsteps from the stairway, heavily approaching.

_~And grizzly ghouls from every tomb are closing in to seal your doom~_

Vasily struggled to his feet, for all the world looking like Atlas under the weight of the world as he threw off the grasping hands of the zombies.

The footsteps echoed down the hall, approaching their studio quickly. Urgently.

_~'Cause this is thriller, thriller night!~_

Vasily defiantly threw his hand into the air, fingers splayed, as the last note played.

The footsteps had halted right outside the studio door.

Music spilled out from every direction, muffled and conflicting from every room Fury had passed. It almost worrying how the sea of sound drowned out everything else— for all the noise, he could have been in a soundproofed room for how much of it he could focus on. He felt out of place, dressed in his dark boots and intimidating coat, with Hill a step behind him in this homey, domestic place. If he hadn't double and triple checked the location, the intel, he would have been convicted that he was in the wrong place. The Avengers, who'd somehow intimidated Fury less than this Ducard guy (gut feelings are never to be trifled with), had been found in hell holes and hideouts. Nothing like this. No one versed in killing could call a place so… _peaceful_ their home. But the guy they were looking for was in the studio at the end of the hall. On the second floor of _Le Tournesol, _teaching schoolchildren to _dance._

The oddity of it was not lost on Fury.

Fury stopped outside the door with a plaque titled _Advanced Ballet_, with a little name tag underneath marking it as taught by one _Lucas Ducard_. He could hear faint music from inside the studio… was that Michael Jackson? Of all things?

_~'Cause this is thriller, thriller night!~_

The music cut off suddenly. Someone started clapping.

"Bravo everyone!" A young man exclaimed. A whole host of excited shouts rose up in answer. Fury waited until they had quieted down to open the door swiftly.

(Whatever Coulson said, it was _not _a dramatic entrance!)

… And was suddenly in the presence of one Lucas Ducard, who turned around quickly, jerked a bit in surprise at Fury's sudden appearance, and promptly started grinning ear to ear. It was one thing to look at a file with some shitty ID picture displayed and a terse description, it was another to be face to face with an entity Fury had never been forced to encounter in his line of work. Ducard was tall, althletically built, with long blond hair, done up in a ponytail, and a pale and clear face. What had startled Fury though were his eyes— bright and clear like a summer sky. Well, that and the sunny smile, which was a little creepy.

That stopped Fury short. It took him a moment longer than he would ever admit to realize that Ducard was holding out his hand to shake.

"Nice to meet you Mr…?" Ducard asked.

"Fury." Nick grasped the kid's hand. "Director of SHIELD."

Ducard raised an eyebrow at the title.

"Amy told me someone was coming up." Ducard turned to the studio, full of what had to be twenty sweating kids looking at Fury like he was purple and had two heads. "And look!" Ducard turned on his heel, facing the class in a practiced move that wouldn't have looked out of place in an actual routine and leaving Fury speechless and with a budding sense of anger. Ducard pointed with a flourish to the clock. "My, my, is it that time already?" The class groaned, sensing that they wouldn't be eavesdropping on this conversation. "Have a nice day, everyone!"

Fury could _hear_ the smile. You're not supposed to be able to hear a smile.

So all he could do was stand to the side, aloof and dignified as almost two dozen sweaty teenagers filed past him out of the studio.

"Come on in!" Ducard waved him over with yet another smile. Fury's getting suspicious. Real people don't smile that much naturally. Ducard pulled up a couple chairs around a low table along the far wall of the studio, setting aside a weathered guitar case.

"Coffee?" He offered. Both Fury and Hill shook their heads. Ducard only shrugged good-naturedly and plopped into a seat.

"So what can I do for you? I can't say this is what I was expecting out of today," Ducard started. "I suppose you guys already know my name, if you came looking for me?" Sharp kid.

"I'll start again." Fury sat forward ever so slightly, sensing the start of, well, not interrogation, but recruitment. "I am Nicholas J. Fury, Director of SHIELD. I don't suppose you know what that is?" He added at Ducard's lost expression.

At a slight shake of the kids head, Hill explained. "SHIELD stands for Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division."

The poor kid still looked lost.

"Like the CIA," he added. Finally Ducard's expression cleared a bit.

Maybe not so sharp a kid, then.

"But what do you want with me?" Ducard asked innocently.

"This." At Fury's words Hill placed the tablet on the table. A tablet which was currently playing the footage of Lucas Ducard on May 4, 2012, in all his Chitauri-killing glory. Ducard's smile slipped into a gentle frown.

"And?" His eyes flicked back up to look at Fury. The startling blue had gained a steely edge. "What does this have to do with me?"

"Don't play coy with me, son." Fury was getting impatient. "That's you in the footage. No use denying it."

Ducard opened his mouth again— to keep protesting or actually admit it he couldn't tell— when a short, aged woman burst into the studio. Lucas whirled around.

"Ah! Madame B!" He greeted her, standing. She only glared, and then marched to Fury and stuck her hand forward.

"My name is Yvonne Beaulieu," she said, looking down at Fury. "I am the director of this academy. You are?"

"Nick Fury." He took her hand, peripherally aware of Ducard attempting to discretely turn off the tablet only to have his hand slapped away by Hill. "Director of SHIELD."

Madame Beaulieu just hummed in response, not intimidated in the slightest. "And why are you here?" She asked. Her voice was stately, just shy of biting due to the gentleness her soft accent lended her words. The Madame's eyes strayed to the tablet. And then snapped to Ducard.

"F_ainéant._" She spoke with a tone Fury had only ever used for particularly nasty interrogation sessions. "I see you have a talent for getting yourself in trouble."

Ducard chuckled nervously.

"Uh, yeah, well I—"

"Not a word to me," she growled. "I leave you alone in this. Deal with it yourself." And with that, she was gone, shutting the door none too lightly behind her.

The room was silent for a moment. Two. Three.

"Nice woman," Fury said. "Your boss?"

Ducard sighed. "Yeah." He scrubbed a hand across his face, and, seeming like he came to a resolution, turned fully to Fury once more. He seemed more relaxed, not that Fury had noticed any tenseness in his frame before. The smile was still there, but less pronounced, more natural. It was almost disarming.

Almost.

"So, I'll rephrase my question," Ducard said. "What do you want with me?" Finally. Done with the evasions.

"Mr. Ducard, SHIELD has an obligation to keep tabs on people like you," Fury began.

"Like me?" Ducard asked.

"People who are… above average. Fighters. People capable of doing what you did during the Incident."

"I wasn't aware that defending yourself from an attack was all that extraordinary, even if it was aliens this time around," Ducard returned.

"No. It's not. What _is _extraordinary is killing aliens with nearly impenetrable skin with a knife," Fury shot back.

That stumped Ducard, at least. The kid sat there, eyes a bit widened and at a loss for words. Fury would let him ease into it. After the fiasco last year, he wasn't interested in making more enemies. He would let the kid come to him.

"So…?" Ducard trailed off.

"So," Hill jumped in. "We have a proposal for you."

"What kind of," Ducard grimaced, "_proposal_?"

"It goes like this." Fury drew a small black phone from his coat pocket and placed in in front of Ducard. "You take this phone. You go home. You go about your life like nothing happened. But this phone," he tapped it lightly. "When this phone rings, you go outside, and you meet an agent with a nice discreet car, which you will get in. And you will do as we say."

"This sounds like a threat." There was the slightest hint of ice in Ducard's voice.

"No, Ducard." Fury locked eyes with the kid, willing him to understand. "This is an agreement. Your secrets for your skills."

Ducard stared at Fury a moment longer, something veiled in his expression that even Fury couldn't quite read. For a split second Fury was worried the kid would rashly refuse, and force Fury's hand. He really didn't want to bring this kid into custody. That was a big fuss and a lot of paperwork he would much rather avoid.

"Okay," Ducard said at length.

Fury made to stand.

"Wait!" Ducard stopped him. "What will I be doing, really?"

Fury looked down at the kid, seeing so many contradicting features. He was just a kid, mid-twenties at best, in a carefree job and a carefree world. He was a warrior, trained to fight and kill. He was an open book, smiling to everyone he met. He had secrets Fury hadn't even gotten his hands on. He was a possible security risk. He was a possible ally.

God, he was so much like the Avengers it hurt. And so different it set Fury's teeth on edge.

"You'll find out." Fury strode to the door, Hill on his heels. "Soon."

Lucas watched as the Director of SHIELD and his lackey— he'd never caught her name— exited the studio. The door clicked shut behind them, cutting off his view of the man's retreating back and swishing black trench coat. Finally he allowed himself to relax, slumping in his chair and putting his head in his hands. He glared through his fingers at the small black phone sitting on the little table now, utterly unassuming, easy to overlook. Who knew something so small would mark such a big change.

Of all the stupid things…

Security cameras.

Of all things…

Obviously, he would comply. He would have to, unless he wanted the full force of an intelligence organization brought down on his head. But if they made him work with the 'roided out "superheroes" who called themselves the Avengers he might just burst a blood vessel. _It could be interesting_, a treacherous part of him whispered, _it could be fun_. He hurriedly attempted to squash down that side of him (however dominant it was). This would be such a problem. They could never find out the truth. This would get in the way…

But damn! This could really be fun!

(No! He had to be responsible. This was the result of a big mistake on his part. This was a punishment.)

He stopped in the center of the studio. Honestly, he hadn't even realized he'd been pacing. Suddenly, the expansive studio room seemed all too small. Lucas hurried over to open a window, to breathe the (somewhat) fresh air. To clear his mind.

There was no avoiding it. He had to make the best of his situation, maybe even turn it to his favor. He was fully capable of that. This was just another event in humanity's long history, and he would be able to ride the waves and come out on the other side with none the wiser.

(Did he want to, this time, yet again?)

He gripped the windowsill tighter. The street below was bustling with people, going about their days as usual. Young lovers discovering love for the first time, placing shy kisses on one another's cheeks. Little children tugging on their parents sleeves, marveling at the world. Adults walking briefcase in one hand, coffee in another, daring to advance in their lives, in the little time they had. People he had long since sworn to protect.

He closed his eyes. Protect. Yes, he was a protector. For so long, he had been a silent one, learning to work from the shadows like he never had before. Then again, there hadn't been outright war. Until dark creatures invaded from the sky, the void. He'd grown complacent. He'd thought that after that, it had been over for a time. Time enough for him to enjoy the moment, enjoy things as they'd been for so long. He'd never seen himself as one who valued staying still, staying the same.

It was so glaringly obvious that he needed to get off his ass. He probably should thank Fury instead of coming up with new, colorful curses for him.

The "invasion" (if it even could be called such a thing) was only a warning. He knew that, but they did not. There was much worse still to come.

The invasion has been a declaration of war. It was high time he'd heeded it.

Glorfindel, Lord of the House of the Golden Flower of Gondolin turned away from the window. He had preparations to make.

It was war, after all.


	3. Whoa Doggy!

**_May 16, 2013_**

**_Avengers Tower_**

**_New York, NY_**

**_United States of America_**

**_8:15 a.m._**

"Sir, there's been a disturbance. Director Fury is requesting the Avengers." Jarvis echoed through Tony Stark's workroom. Stark, however, didn't look up from his table, utterly focused on the fine tuning of minuscule working parts of his latest piece of tech— predictably, a part of an Iron Man suit.

"What kind of disturbance?" He frowned at a particularly tricky set of gears.

"Mr. Fury declined to go into much detail, sir, but he did say it was urgent. I believe the rest of the team is already assembling for a briefing," Jarvis said.

Tony sighed, setting down his tools haphazardly and flicking off the stereo which had been previously blasting _AC/DC_.

"Mr. Banner and Capt. Rogers are already in the living room," Jarvis informed him as he slid open the glass doors of his private workshop.

The briefing was on the main floor, a sort of living room for the Avengers. The floor was almost always called the living room even if it was really, really, not a room, but an entire level of Avenger's Tower. Honestly, it was true, and even Tony had to admit that calling it the "living floor" or something else equally stupid was just plain weird. So the living room it was. If it could be called that. Even after several months, after the Avengers had somehow miraculously taken up on his offer and opted to live in the Tower (at least part-time for some of them) once the reconstruction had been completed, the living room was still not… Well, the living room was not exactly lived in. Each Avenger had their own floor, every one equipped with all the bells and whistles. Tony had learned that giving a group of adult coworkers who were prickly at best their own localized spaces was not very conducive to team building, even team _interaction_, but it really wasn't so bad. Actually, it had been improving. Somewhat. Not by Tony's doing of course, but if the Black Widow suggests establishing a movie night, you establish a movie night.

_Ding_. And here Tony was. Briefing, his favorite (ha!) part of a mission.

"Hey, Capsicle!" He greeted. To the man's credit, Rogers didn't so much as flinch as the name, simply nodding a greeting and a "good morning" with his arms crossed, a worried crease in his brow. That was alarming. Not the worried look, of course, because Rogers almost always looked like that on a potential mission, intergalactic catastrophe, terrorist scare, petty thief, etcetera etcetera. No, Rogers was desensitized to his wonderful nickname! Tony would have to change that.

In the span of time that it took for him to pass on a greeting to a very exhausted looking Bruce and get himself a coffee and a bagel from the kitchen, the rest of the team had arrived. Natasha was lounging on the couch, nursing a cup of tea, Clint was perched on the couch arm beside her, tossing a tennis ball around, and Thor was downing what Tony (somewhat hypocritically) _hoped_ was coffee.

"Incoming message from Director Fury," Jarvis said. Moments later a hologram flickered to life, displaying a flood of information, specs, blueprints, pictures, you name it. In this case, it was mainly sand. Great. Couldn't monsters and villains ever bother to show up someplace hospitable? At least Loki had had _class. _And lo and behold, Fury's disembodied voice began to explain the newest global shitfest to the team.

"Fes, Morocco," Fury began. "Population 2 million, major tourist destination, cultural center, and now home to this little gem." A grainy image shifted to the forefront of the hologram. It was… well, there wasn't much to see, really. The photo wasn't good quality, but it showed a mass of grey fur and glowing red eyes, and boy was it big. Whatever the thing was, it was nearly as tall as the buildings it was running between.

"Reports from civilians say this creature showed up early this morning. Our intel suggests that it's been terrorizing the people there for a few months, subtly. A slew of missing people over a short period of time, vanishing from the streets at night. In a city like that, it wasn't taken seriously, just an uptick in a total number. You know the deal."

"But it's out in the open now?" Rogers frowned. "Why didn't we hear about this sooner?"

"What have the casualties been?" Tony asked at the same time.

"Yes, the first actual sighting was at about 4 a.m. today." Fury was ignoring Tony. "And we didn't hear about it until now because it was only sighted _4 hours ago_." Of course, SHIELD had needed time to prepare, to gather intel, to delegate and relegate and all that, but a small part of Tony burned to know that in those four hours more people had probably died.

Tony opened his mouth to repeat his question but Bruce beat him to the chase.

"How did it get there?" Bruce chimed in. "A giant wolf in a Moroccan city? It sounds like a bad RPG scenario."

Tony could sense that Fury was pinching the bridge of his nose or rubbing his temples from the other side of their comms.

"That has yet to be seen," he answered cryptically. Meaning, of course, SHIELD had no idea and were leaving it to them. What an honor.

Tony asked his question again.

"We don't know yet, for sure," Fury answered. "There's no way to tell how many of the disappearances were the fault of this thing, but so far it's killed maybe a dozen since we got wind of it. A few agents in the area responding to it were part of that number."

"Alright," Thor cut in. "Enough of this, how do we kill it?"

And so the briefing (informative argument) began in earnest, with every wasted second weighing on their heads and hearts.

**_Somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean_**

**_8:45 a.m._**

It had taken the team less than a half an hour to get through the rest of the briefing and load themselves onto a quinjet. Now, halfway to Morocco on a very fast plane, the Avengers sat in a tense silence.

A silence which was suddenly broken by a crackling comm, and Fury's voice once again interrupted their day.

"I forgot to tell you in the briefing," Fury said, sounding smug. "But we're bringing in someone. He's new."

"_New?_" Tony asked, disbelief bleeding into his voice. "Are you trying to add someone else to the team?"

"Or get us all killed in the process? We can't just fight with someone we've never even met!" Rogers protested. The part about this new guy being incompetent went unsaid, but not unheard.

"Play nice," was all Fury said in return. The comms went quiet again. The Avengers didn't.

"Just what the hell is Fury thinking?" Rogers fumed. "Of all the harebrained… he never even told us anything about the guy!"

"Maybe he just wants the guy to find his own way in," Bruce piped up, ever the voice of reason. "Maybe he's not even adding him to the team. He could have just brought in someone with experience with this sort of thing."

"Experience with monster wolves, really?" Tony crossed his arms.

"You know what I mean," Bruce shot back.

"Bruce is right, Fury never said he was trying to shoehorn him onto the team," Natasha said, sounding a bit uninterested.

"But he never denied it either," Clint pointed out.

And so on the conversation (argument) spiraled, as the coast of Morocco drew into view and vanished beneath the plane, until Thor finally spoke up, cutting through the buzz of the rest of the team's warring voices.

"We've arrived."

Fes was, in a word, sandy. It may have been worthy of a few more words, like colorful, full of life, bustling, bursting at the seams with character, but considering that right now it was overrun with a gigantic monster wolf, with people running away screaming in droves, sandy seemed the only descriptor that still fit.

Tony had considered getting the team together to form a plan of attack (he _did_ learn from his mistakes, thank you very much Rogers), but that idea was quickly scrapped when, immediately after touching down, everyone went their separate ways. Meaning, Thor immediately leapt directly at the giant wolf thing, attempting to bash it from the front with Mjolnir and only really succeeding in playing a dangerous game of dodging the monster's snapping jaws. Clint and Natasha had taken advantage of this and run off to more advantageous positions, Natasha circling behind the wolf and Clint scrambling up the side of a nearby building. Rogers was flitting around the edges of the disaster area, urging any remaining civilians to get as far away as possible, and Bruce was still sitting in the quinjet (they had all agreed that the Hulk would not help matters in this case). So what was Tony left to do?

Fly in and fire repulsor beams directly at the wolf's ugly mug, of course. Which apparently only pissed it off even more. The wolf shook its head and snarled at Tony, swiping a great paw at Thor and sending him flying into a fruit stall.

And so the fight continued for a few moments, and would have continued in much the same vein until the wolf was captured (because SHIELD was for some reason uneasy about gigantic monster carcasses lying around), but then it did something… weird. Horrifying would probably be a better word, but all Tony could think as he watched the wolf's bones crack and shift under its hide, twisting and stretching within its skin until it was at least ten feet taller, its skin splitting as wicked spikes sprouted out along its spine, and its jaw unhinging to allow not enough room for thousands of razor-sharp fangs was, _huh. Weird. _

Tony didn't even have time to change his wording to 'problematic' before the wolf crouched, its oversized muscles rippling and bulging unnaturally under its skin, and leapt over the nearest building and onto the next street. Clint tried futilely to shoot it in the stomach, but the arrow simply bounced off. The ground shook as it landed, and screams rose amid the beast's angry snarls.

Thus began the pursuit.

Street after street they chased it, Thor and Tony flying to and fro (coincidentally he and Tony were always the first to reach it), with Natasha and Clint scaling rooftops, and Rogers hoofing it in the streets, trying his hardest to corral the civilians away.

But the problem was that every time they thought they'd caught the damn thing, it would shape-shift into something even more awful and slip away. It even had eyes in the back of its head now, which had been disgusting to watch. And every time they managed to wound the thing, whenever Tony burned out its eyes or Thor broke its bones or Clint and Natasha somehow managed to stick an arrow or a knife into some spot of soft tissue (often when the thing was shifting), it just grew back and healed itself. Which was both extremely problematic and infuriating. The wolf had grown so many… additions… that it could hardly even be called a wolf anymore. This time, the monster had just jumped into another street— this one three over, the thing had grown back legs so gargantuan it could jump like a huge, carnivorous frog— and Tony was the first to reach it. Even then, he could tell he was going to be too late.

The beast had cornered a group of people, mothers and fathers and young children. A woman clutched a trembling child to her breast, shielding him from the beasts slavering jaws as it closed in. Tony was still a street away. He couldn't fire his repulsor beams from this distance— the wolf had chewed on his hands a couple streets ago— and he didn't trust them to be accurate or powerful enough to avoid hitting him or the civilians. But he wouldn't make it in time! Tony urged his thrusters to go faster even though they were on full power. The seconds seemed to tick by one by one, as the monster closed in on the innocents and Tony could do nothing, absolutely nothing but watch.

That was until a figure streaked past, blond hair almost glowing under the harsh sun, and barred the monster's way. The man— for it was a man, although he had strangely long hair— was dressed casually and had a guitar case slung across his back, but in his hands brandished a wicked looking blade. And with a shout, a civilian (tourist, by the tone of his skin) jumped at the monstrous wolf with all the reckless insanity the world had to offer, and Tony' heart leapt into his throat watching the kid, who couldn't have been more than twenty, jump in front of certain death. Tony was going to watch this kid die. The beast snarled and snapped its jaws, closing in on the stupid (brave) civilian who was just about to die wielding what was probably a model sword. It was going to tear the kid limb from limb, and then it would move on to the people behind them, while Tony was still going to be too late _too late…_

But it didn't happen like that.

No, what happened was that the guy with the guitar case across his back and the sword in his hand rolled underneath the snapping jaws, and immediately after coming to a crouch underneath its front legs pivoted on his feet and sliced through the backs of both the monster's forelegs. The wolf's legs began to crumple beneath it, and the man was still underneath that gargantuan body. But already the monster was regaining its footing, still falling, but the tendons which had just been severed mending all the same, all to quickly. Its body wouldn't heal fast enough, though. The man was faster.

He had been waiting for it to begin falling. Somehow, the blond had found the wolf's blindspot between the twenty-or-so eyes sprouting from its head: directly under its jaws. As the wolf's body finally gave under the force of gravity and its failing legs, he was there. And with a thrust of his sword through the soft flesh between jaw bones, the man had buried his arm so far in the beast's head that the blade protruded from its forehead.

Tony could do nothing but stare at the thing's dead eyes as he arrived. Not even a minute after he first spotted the blond man from a half a mile away. The man who, as of now, was drenched in wolf blood, yanking his sword from the thing's twitching carcass.

And all Tony could think of to say, as he felt Thor's presence fill in behind him and saw the rest of his team approaching in his peripherals, was "We weren't supposed to _kill_ it." It sounded lame even to him.

And he said nothing else for a few seconds after that, too preoccupied with watching in horrified fascination as the carcass began to bubble and steam, shriveling and turning in on itself until it was just the body of a emaciated, mangy dog. The blond man considered it for a moment, and then crouched beside the dog's head, gently closing its eyes as one would a fallen warrior and seemed to mutter a few words under his breath. Then he stood once again, and was approaching Tony well before he had had enough time to process any of the proceeding events.

"Hi," the man stuck out his still bloody hand to shake, smiling brightly. "Call me Luke."


	4. A Friendly Spar

**I know I've been sticking to a Monday release schedule, but consider this a Christmas present, I suppose. Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays everyone!**

**_May 16, 2013_**

**_Fes, Morocco_**

**_9:15 a.m._**

"Hi," the man was still dripping in the wolf's blood, people in the marketplace were still screaming and running, and Tony was still brain dead.

"Call me Luke." Luke stood with his arm outstretched, the casual normality of it out of place in the absolute chaos of the marketplace. He was still smiling. Tony numbly took his hand and shook it, distantly glad that the metal between his hand and Luke's kept the blood off him.

"Tony," he answered dumbly. "Iron Man." Where had all his charisma gone? He'd fought aliens, for Christ's sake! But this guy dropped out of nowhere and downed this monster they'd been told to capture. Dripping in its blood. If they had wanted to kill it, they would have just gone ahead and done it, not gone through the trouble of trying to corner it and chase it across the entire city!

"Nice to meet you, Tony. I—" Luke was cut off by the chime of a phone. He wiped his hand off on his only slightly less bloody jeans and extracted a phone from his back pocket. "Sorry, I've got to take this."

"Yeah… of course." So there Tony stood, reeling, simply watching as Luke raised the phone to his ear… And the voice of Fury, distorted and tinny, rose from the phone.

"The _hell _is wrong with you, Ducard?" Fury spat through the phone. "What kind of a scene was that?"

"I did the job you asked me to," Luke said mildly. "You didn't say how."

"I said work with the Avengers!"

"I did."

"Doing their job for them and doing it incorrectly is not working with them, you damned kid! Where's the soft-heartedness of the younger generations, huh?" Fury was undoubtedly facing pressure from the board. Tony knew he would rather eliminate a threat than capture it, but he was certain that scientists behind the scenes needed the specimen for reasons he didn't like thinking about.

"I did the job perfectly well, Director." Luke's voice had suddenly cooled, frosting over just a bit. His smile was still fully in place, if reduced to a small slant of the mouth. "People were in danger, and they are no longer in danger. That's it."

"That is _not _it Ducard and you know it!" Fury seemed to deflate, sighing and pausing for a moment. "We'll discuss this further in the team briefing. For now make some friends." Then Fury hung up, as abrupt as ever.

"What was that all about?" Tony piped up. "You the new kid?"

"Yeah, I suppose," Luke laughed. "I'd love to talk more, but maybe we could wait until the ride back?" He stuck a thumb over his shoulder. "I think your buddies have pretty much finished up crowd control, and if your science guys still want the dog we can grab it on the way out."

It was true, most of the civilians were long gone and the rest of the Avengers were beginning to trickle closer, listening to the conversation. Barton twirled one unused arrow absentmindedly, but his eyes were sharp on the back of Luke's head.

"Anyways," Luke shrugged. "I'm kinda eager to change out of these clothes, ya know?" Tony would be too. The kid needed more than a change of clothes, he needed a sanitary washing. Not only were all of his clothes caked in rapidly drying monster blood (that white shirt was never going to be the same color again) but the guitar case he wore was going to need some TLC to make it right again and his hair was _matted _with blood and little bits of red that was slightly lighter and significantly less liquid than the rest of it that Tony did not want to think about.

"Yeah," Tony answered. "We'd better get going. Thor!" He called to the god of thunder across the demolished street. "Can you grab the dead dog?" Thor didn't look at him _too_ strangely, nodding and striding over to pick up the corpse.

"Let's get you cleaned up, Saint George." He clapped the kid on the shoulder— with his armor firmly in place thank god— and turned to the relative direction of their rendezvous location with the plane. He caught Rogers' eye, seeing the same intent reflected in his face.

Time to find out just who the hell Fury had dumped on them this time. Find out if the kid could be trusted, and if he couldn't. Well, it probably wouldn't be too hard to take him out of the picture.

Tony missed the strange look Luke sent towards Thor, the lingering gaze and the dismissal of "worry about that later" spoken only in the twitch of his eyebrows.

Barton did not miss the action, but he hadn't heard most of the conversation, so he figured that the strange look was for the dead dog Thor was carrying. He hadn't heard it had been Luke who'd suggested they take the damned thing.

Natasha Romanov, the Black Widow, saw and heard both. And she knew this Luke Ducard would spell trouble. The only question was if they would like the kind of trouble he brought with him.

**_Avengers Tower_**

**_New York, NY_**

**_United States of America_**

**_9:45 a.m._**

"He didn't say a word about anything remotely important the entire way here." Steve impatiently tapped his fingers against the glass table. "He completely evaded all of our questions."

"The kid was probably pretty shaken from that fight," Tony shrugged.

"Slaughter, you mean." The 'kid' as Tony called him, even though Luke couldn't be more than a year younger than Steve biologically, hadn't fought with that monster. He'd put it down like a diseased cow.

"He does seem to be a trained warrior," Thor spoke from his place leaning against the wall.

"He was babbling through the entire flight." That was true, but then again maybe talking about the dance studio he worked at for fifteen minutes straight was just a clever way to avoid being questioned. "Seriously, not everyone here is a war vet, give the kid some slack."

"We'll give him slack when he proves himself trustworthy," Natasha piped up, sliding into a seat in sweats and a tank top.

"What I want to know is how he managed to down something in less than two minutes that you guys couldn't bag in a half an hour," Bruce said.

"That's simple, our orders were to capture it, not kill it," Steve said.

"Right, because orders are everything." Tony rolled his eyes.

"Your meaning?" Steve understood that everyone was entitled to their own opinion and all that jazz, but Tony could not have picked a better time or place to piss him off.

"Am I interrupting something?" A new voice broke into the conversation, deescalating it efficiently as all attention was shifted to Luke, who had returned from the showers in a change of clothes provided by Steve, toweling off his hair. Which was as long as a woman's. Steve really needed to get used to the oddities of this decade. And he had thought hair dye was strange.

"No," Steve said curtly. "Care to sit down?"

Luke smiled and took a seat beside Tony, across from Steve. "I guess you guys have a few questions for me?" He asked.

"More than a few," Barton muttered. Luke gave no indication that he heard him, but his smile widened ever so slightly.

"Where do we start?" Luke prompted, crossing his arms on the tabletop.

"Let's start easy," Tony began. "Your name?"

"Lucas Ducard."

"That French?" Banner asked.

"My grandfather was from France."

"What's your day job?" Tony asked again.

"I'm a dance instructor. Ballet, mostly," Luke answered. Steve supposed that explained his more… feminine… tendencies. He really needed to remember this wasn't the forties anymore.

"So how did you learn how to use a sword like that?" Steve questioned. "Actually, where is your sword?" After they had boarded the quinjet the only things Steve had seen with Luke were his phone and battered guitar case.

"Oh, it's right here!" Luke bent down to grab his guitar case (somehow free of blood) and set it on the table. He flipped a couple buckles, and with a pop it opened— but not at the top. No, Luke turned it on its side, and the back popped open, revealing a hidden compartment containing the sword, and quite the array of additional blades and daggers.

Tony whistled appreciatively, and Steve raised his eyebrows as Luke withdrew the sword he had used that morning. It was the longest of those in the case, with delicate scrolling in an unknown language across its blade and an intricately designed hilt. At the ricasso was the etching of a flower, interwoven with many symbols and inlaid with gold. The hilt itself was brown and wooden, worn and decorated with similar complex markings.

"And where did you get something like that?" Steve asked.

Luke's eye twitched and his smile quirked upwards. "Family heirloom." He answered simply, putting the blade away. Before Steve could prompt him to explain exactly what the hell that meant, Luke continued. "I know what you're going to ask." He fastened the sword back into the case and snapped it shut. "And the skills are a sort of heirloom too. Passed down through the generations. I honestly have no idea exactly how old these weapons are."

"So why does your family do all this, then?" Steve asked. "And why?"

Luke's eyes hardened, slightly. "To fight against the darkness. To kill things like that diseased, half-formed warg, for example."

"What did you call it?" Banner seemed to have latched onto that last piece of information, just like the rest of them. "A warg?"

"Like from the Lord of the Rings?" Clint's eyes had lit up.

"Yes, like that" Luke conceded. "But also really not. Tolkien got the word warg from the Norse concept of monstrous wolves, and the movies basically built off of that. Really, I doubt they're ever described as they really are in mythology." He sighed. "There are many names for them, but I simply use warg as the next best thing. It's an abomination." He cut off Banner before he could ask another question. "It's some poor animal that has been corrupted by darkness and warped beyond recognition. This one just happened to be diseased so that it never _stopped_ warping."

He turned to stare fully at Banner and Tony. "So tell Fury and your scientists that even if they find anything in researching that poor dog, they won't find anything of use." The warning that anything they did find should be burned or locked away where no one would ever see it again went unspoken.

"Right," even Tony sounded cowed, if just a little.

"So you just, what, fight with knives?" Steve's measure of someone normally came from the mats. Everyone's true colors came out in a fight, so he would decide if this guy was trustworthy once they'd gone toe to toe. And only then.

"I also know some hand to hand, along with some other things I inherited," Luke's smile turned into a grin. "Why, wanna spar?"

"What other things?" Tony asked first. "Other than a guitar armory, that is."

Luke chewed his lip a bit. Funny, that was the first time he'd shown any reluctance in the entire conversation. It really made Steve feel old when he could watch the young adults these days run their mouths without thinking about what they were saying in the first place.

"You guys might think this would be a bit… hard to believe." He held up a hand at the six incredulous gazes fixed on him. "No, really. I wouldn't think magic would be on the list of things you've had to deal with as the Avengers."

Tony's eyes rolled so hard Steve thought they might fall out. "Now you're just making up shit. Magic isn't real."

At that, Steve could have sworn he saw something of the Howling Commandos at their worst in Luke's smile, and he knew in that moment the kid was most definitely not pulling their collective leg about magic being real, but he was most definitely about to screw with Tony.

And so it was that when Luke withdrew a small, ornamental looking dagger and threw it straight onto the table, and every Avenger made a twitch to stop it before it shattered the table, Steve really couldn't say he was overly surprised when the dagger went _through_ the table and embedded itself onto the hardwood flooring.

"Explain that, then," Luke smirked. Tony stared at the dagger, embedded perpendicular to the floor, with an open mouth.

"H…" If Tony weren't a young man, Steve would have sworn he was having a stroke.

"It's enchanted to pass through certain objects, depending on the user's intent. Pretty handy, right? I only know a couple simple spells, like simple healing spells for cuts and scrapes, stuff like that. Nothing that complex, really. And!" He cut off Steve before he could so much as open his mouth. "It's tiring, so don't ask me for a demonstration, please."

Steve nodded. "Alright, so how about we go to the training room instead. If you want to join the team we need to know you can fight actual people, and without killing them. We don't do that here." He narrowed his eyes at Luke, trying to get his point across well and good. However, Luke didn't seem to be looking at Steve, instead staring at a spot over his shoulder, perplexed.

So Steve spun around to see…

"Miguel!" Tony exclaimed. "Haven't I told you that you don't have to clean the living room on weekends? Why are you here?"

And there stood Miguel, the main janitor for Avengers tower (in Steve's opinion the man was a miracle worker, cleaning up after Tony's messes was a difficult job, and he was sure the man didn't get paid enough for it). Miguel clutched his mop in hand, shuffling his feet beside his cleaning cart.

"Eh… Sí, Señor Stark," Miguel said. "Lo siento, it is only that Señor Jarvis said penthouse needs sanitary clean? For, eh, la sangre… blood? And a dog that is dead?" Miguel had a very thick accent, making Steve strain to understand him.

Oh, dear. Jarvis had called in cleaning services already for all that. They had tracked a lot of blood into the Tower. Again. And Miguel had somehow wound up showing up in the middle of a confidential briefing. Again.

"And how long have you been standing there?" Tony asked, his voice rising slightly.

"I did not want to interrupt, Señor," Miguel held up his hands, sending his mop crashing to the floor. "I was not listening, Señor. On mí mamá you have my word!"

Tony scrubbed a hand over his face. "I've gone over how much of a security risk this is Miguel. _Ask _me first next time you come to clean the special clearance areas first, alright?"

"Sí, Señor Stark. Muchos gracias!" Miguel stooped to pick up his fallen mop and hurried off to the area he needed to clean, dragging his cleaning cart noisily behind him. Luke watched him go, a strange look on his face.

"My cleaning guy," Tony explained once Miguel was gone. "A great guy, if a bit, well," he paused. "Not all there in the head, ya know?"

Luke nodded silently. Then his eyes lit up again in full force, and a truly menacing smile graced his lips. "So how about that spar?"

And that was what found all the Avengers, plus one ballet instructor, in the training room of Avengers Tower. It was much simpler than one would think Tony would come up with, but the rest of the team had done their damndest to made sure he didn't go overboard. Steve personally thought that too many nice toys made someone soft, that improvising was part of learning to fight — but that was more likely than not owing to the amount of time he'd spend trying to land a solid punch on guys twice the size of him in Brooklyn's back alleys. Still, he hadn't backed down, and Tony must have had some sense in him, because the gym had turned out just fine. Weights and a few other contraptions littered the left wall, a line of turf ran from one end of the rectangular room to the other along the far wall, and most of the right side's flooring was covered in matts and the walls lined with various weapons. And Steve may have asked for reinforced punching bags. He was still a little shocked (touched) that Tony had coughed them up.

"Alright, how about just hand to hand?" Steve asked, shrugging off his button-down. It would be best if he just fought in his undershirt anyways, he'd long since discovered that button-downs were prone to rip. Luke didn't bother, just rolling up the too-big sleeves of the shirt he'd borrowed from Steve.

"Fine by me," Luke grinned.

The rest of the Avengers grouped up at the edge of the mats.

"So the rules go like this." Steve began to edge a circle around the mat, Luke following suit so they stayed facing each other. "If you hold your own for a minute, you're on the team. Two, and I buy you coffee. Three, Stark may just have to give you your own private quarters."

Luke laughed, his eyes twinkling. "I think I like my apartment just fine, but if he could pay the rent I wouldn't object."

Tony grinned a bit manically and shouted back. "I think you may be getting ahead of yourself, there. Prove it before talking big, twinkle toes!"

"Match starts in five," Natasha began counting down, holding a stopwatch.

"Four." Steve sunk into a fighting stance, observing the man across from him.

"Three." Luke was completely relaxed, looking completely unprepared. Steve was both worried and wary about that. It reminded him a bit of how Natasha fought, but with less experience and more unpreparedness.

"Two." To be honest, Luke didn't look like much. Average height, weight, athletic but not overly muscled. The only thing that really made him stand out was his unusually long hair. He wasn't a trained assassin like Natasha or a super soldier like Steve. Luke was the little guy.

"One." Maybe that was why Steve felt like Luke could hold his own. Steve knew not to underestimate a little guy.

"Go!" Natasha called, and Steve sprang into action.

He charged towards Luke, throwing a punch. Luke ducked under his arm, attempting to punch him in the stomach. They traded several more blows, kicking and punching in turn. Steve blocked a particularly sloppy punch, grabbing Luke's arm and using the momentum to throw Luke over his head.

Somehow Luke managed to get his arms around Steve's shoulders, so a throw that was meant to slam Luke into the mats and leave Steve standing ended the other way around.

Steve drew himself into a crouch and swept his leg at Luke's ankles. Luke jumped back a bit, and so Steve and Luke circled on the mat for a second. Two.

Luke ran at Steve, this time. A flurry of blows followed, and for a moment Steve felt Luke get past his guard. Then a twitch, a split second's hesitation from Luke, and suddenly Steve had the upper hand again. Luke hit the mats, with Steve's hand at his neck.

"Time!" called Natasha. "One minute, forty-six seconds."

Steve extended a hand to help Luke up. "Good job," he said.

"Likewise," Luke grunted. "Damn you pack a punch!" He laughed. "Does this mean I'm on the team."

Steve thought for a moment. He'd have to get more information from Fury, who'd almost certainly screened the poor guy to hell and back. They'd have to do their own sort of interrogations, finding out more of his character, seeing where he would fit. But Steve trusted him, somehow. He might even enjoy being friends with this odd, slightly crazy bastard. He reminded him of the Howling Commandos in that way. Didn't care a lick what others thought and lived for the fight.

"Yeah, man," Steve smiled too. "You're on the team."

"Hell yeah!" Tony hollered from the side. The entire team was smiling.

Natasha didn't trust Lucas Ducard. He seemed like a friendly enough guy, good to work with and effective as a teammate. Yet the man had secrets. And he had secrets he was practiced at hiding. She didn't know who would feel the need to pull their punches against Captain America, but Lucas apparently did. She didn't know why a guy with likely no past contact with Norse Gods would look at Thor like he was more of an unexpected variable than an oddity. Most of all, she wondered why he bothered telling them about the existence of magic if he was just lying about some of it anyways.

Lucas seemed to be made of lies, secrets piling up one after another to the point they became a crafted truth. Natasha probably wouldn't have noticed if she hadn't done the same herself for years. But that could be her insecurities talking. A twitch of a lip and a strange glint in someone's eye could be misinterpreted, after all. It was very likely she was wrong.

So Natasha didn't trust Lucas, but she wouldn't tell anyone that. She'd smile, she'd laugh, she'd make him her friend. But she'd watch. She would always be watching.

Luke stepped into the elevator with a smile, a wave, and a bright "catch you later!" He'd insisted he needed to get to work, so the boys had reluctantly let him go after talking to him for another thirty minutes. Now they were alone again. It was oddly silent between the Avengers, as each reflected on what had happened this morning.

"Aw, shit!" Tony exclaimed out of nowhere, making Natasha jump. "We didn't figure out his hero name!"

Steve sighed heavily, putting his head in his hands. Thor laughed heartily, and Bruce and Clint joined in too. Natasha just smiled and shook her head. At least she was never bored.

Glorfindel was certain the woman— Natasha— hadn't taken her eyes off him once. He was a bit worried that she'd noticed him let Steve win in that spar, but then again she hadn't said anything, and if anyone should have noticed it would have been Steve. And boy, speaking of Steve Rogers, the 21st century was weird. He wasn't used to seeing anyone among Men live that long, even if there were extenuating circumstances. At least the Captain didn't seem to recognize him— not that it'd be likely he would, given that at the time Glorfindel had been covered in blood, mud, and who knows what else in the thick of gunfire and explosions. And Steve would assume no one would live that long. They shouldn't, of course, if they were Men and not super soldiers injected with whatever kind of bastardized energy those doctors had managed to pull out of the "Tesseract."

Also, he'd fought for the French, so he didn't imagine that Captain _America _had payed too much attention to him. Even if he did make a connection Glorfindel could write it off as his grandfather or something. The swords did run in the family, after all.

The elevator chimed brightly and the computerized voice, AI, whatever it was said, "Ground floor. Have a good day, Mr. Ducard."

"Thanks," Glorfindel shouldered his guitar case and made his way out the lobby. He was going to _relish_ the long walk back to _Le Tournesol_. It would give him plenty of time to mentally prepare himself in the face of the Madame's wrath. He hoped she would understand.

Glorfindel sighed and glanced down at his phone, idly checking the news. "**AVENGERS TAKE DOWN KILLER WOLF IN MOROCCO**" stared back at him from the bright screen.

Actually, on second thought he hoped she didn't. He hoped against hope the damn news hadn't gotten any pictures of him. He hadn't seen anyone with cameras, had he? Had he?

Glorfindel ran a hand through his still damp hair. Well, if he was lucky maybe it would dry off by the time he got to work.

He checked his watch. 11:00 already. There was no way he would be able to make it to the 11:15 lesson on time, even if he sprinted. Only one thing to do for that, he supposed.

His phone rang three times before Amy picked up.

"Luke, what's up?" She still sounded groggy, poor girl. Amy had a bad habit of staying up very, very late.

"Hey Amy, I… uh…" Even thinking about explaining this whole mess to the Madame was making him pause.

"Gonna be late again?" She sounded as exasperated as he felt. "What's your excuse this time?"

Glorfindel thought for a moment. "Found a stray dog outside my place," he finally settled on. "Took him to the pound, but I'm walking and there's just no way I'll make the 11:15 session in time. Can you…"

"I'll tell the Madame that you'll be late, but you're on your own for the excused, Luke and you know it!" She laughed a bit. "You are such a softie. Late for work because of a dog?"

"Yeah," Glorfindel laughed. "A bit silly, isn't it?"

**Regarding Miguel: I do not intend to stereotype or otherwise belittle Hispanic people. It's simply a plot device, and its purpose will make itself clear in coming chapters. Thank you.**


	5. Talking Feelings (Against Your Will)

**_May 17, 2013_**

**_146 Mercer Street_**

**_Apartment 305 _**

**_New York, NY_**

**_United States of America_**

**_7:45 a.m._**

Sunlight filtered gently through a pane of glass, the thin ray of light illuminating countless radiant particles of dust suspended, dancing in the air. Inside, a cluttered bedroom fenced by rough red-stone walls looked much like a scene from a period piece, bathed in gentle tones of tan and brown. The perfect image of tranquility was ruined, however, by the loud honking of horns from the adjacent street and the groaning bundle of blankets resting on the bed.

A phone at the corner of a bedside table buzzed, shaking itself to the point that it fell onto the floor. The lump of blankets gave one last defiant twitch, and then a pale hand snatched the phone up from its spot on the carpet.

"Who?" Glorfindel muttered, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

"It's Amy."

"Amy?" That woke him up a bit. He hadn't expected her to be calling so early. To be honest, he'd thought it was probably something else from Fury. "What's up?"

"I…" she hesitated for a moment. "Look, I'm sorry to bother you this early, but I didn't know who else I could talk to about… this."

"What's wrong?"

"I'd rather not say over the phone. It's complicated," she sighed. "Can you come over to _Le Tourn?_" That was odd. The academy didn't even open until 2:00 pm today. And what could Amy possibly not say over the phone?

"Sure, I'm on my way. You're sure there's nothing else you can tell me?" He lowered his voice a bit. "Are you in some kind of trouble?"

"Oh, no!" Amy laughed a bit, breezy as ever. "Nothing like that, Luke, it's just kinda a sensitive issue. I just… you're the first person I thought of, to help."

"Alright, Amy. I'll see you there."

It seemed that this week was just shaping up to be stranger and stranger. He hoped this issue would at least be more of the stray dog or relationship drama variety, not some of the more grim scenarios his mind had started creating.

* * *

**_May 17, 2013_**

**_297 Lafayette Street_**

**_New York, NY_**

**_United States of America_**

**_8:00 a.m._**

Glorfindel had only just rounded the corner onto Lafayette Street when he caught sight of Amy, standing alone at the entrance to _Le Tournesol_. Had he not possessed elven sight, he wouldn't have been able to see the tense line to Amy's shoulders or the way she gripped the strap of her messenger bag tight enough to turn the skin of her knuckles white, and he certainly wouldn't have been able to see the faint gleam of unshed tears in her eyes, idly threatening to ruin the young woman's ever-pristine makeup, and the way her eyes darted worriedly between her phone, the doors to the studio, and the street in front of her.

Finally, her eyes darted from door to phone to street again, landing on a steadily approaching Glorfindel. Amy simply raised a hand in greeting, and Glorfindel did the same as he jogged across the street to meet her.

"Sorry," he started, combing back some of his hair from his face. "I got here as soon as I could—"

"Don't worry about it," Amy cut him off, voice heavy with relief. "Just come inside." She cast one last glance to the sidewalk and street beyond before disappearing into the building.

"O…kay?" Glorfindel followed her in. "Is there a reason you're being so evasive about this?"

"It's Vasily," she said in lieu of an explanation.

"Oh."

Oh was right. It was a bit of an open secret that Vasily had… family issues. And on top of that the issues tended to stem from the "family business," not to be cliché or anything (which was a bit hard, since Glorfindel's entire life seemed to be one cliché stacked on another, the entire mess wearing a trench coat and shaded glasses).

Glorfindel held back a sigh as he stepped into the deserted lobby. Before he could even open his mouth to ask where Vasily was, exactly, Amy nodded at the stairs and held a finger to her lips.

"I swung by to pick up my laptop before classes. Which I had forgotten, again," she whispered. "I heard crying upstairs, and I'm sure you can fill in the rest." She shook her head. "I just don't know how to deal with these things— I'd only make it worse. Do you think you can talk to him?"

Glorfindel nodded, raking a hand across his face. "I don't suppose you want to come with me?"

Amy winced. "Yeah, that's the other reason I called you."

"Classes?" He guessed.

"I would skip, but I really need to pass this class…"

"No, I understand. It's alright, really."

Amy lingered at the door, shuffling her feet and overall looking extremely guilty. As she should be, for waking him up so early and promptly shoving him into an emotional minefield, but he couldn't find it in him to hold it against her.

"Get going," he said with forced lightness. "I'll never hear the end of it if you actually flunk your exams."

That seemed to startle Amy back to life, but again she jerked to a stop with her heel on the threshold and hand on the doorknob.

"I'll see you later." She looked back at him. "Thank you, Luke." And with that she finally, _actually, _left.

"Don't thank me yet," Glorfindel muttered to himself, eyeing the staircase in front of him as if it were a perilous mountain path, one especially infested with dangerous creatures. Actually, no, that would have been a simpler matter to deal with. With a final, tired sigh, he ascended to… talk about feelings.

_Fantastic_.

* * *

Vasily's left foot was completely numb.

It wasn't really a surprise, given that he'd been curled up in the same position since he'd first entered the studio, and since then the faint dawn light had strengthened into a beautiful morning. It didn't feel beautiful, but at least the pins and needles in his foot helped distract him.

After all, then he doesn't have to think about the throbbing pain across his cheek, or the ghost of a hand across his cheek.

A light knock came from the door in front of him. Right, Amy had said she would call someone. Not that he wanted to talk. Would it kill them just to leave him in peace? He huffed out a sigh, re-wedging his head between his knees. The movement aggravated the side of his face, but at this point he didn't care.

"Vasily, can I come in?" Lucas called softly.

Well, that was… not bad. Good, actually, because Vasily had been afraid Amy would call the Madame, or worse his _parents_. But Luke? Luke was okay.

"Yeah," he answered, not bothering to look up when he heard the door.

Soft footsteps approached, stopping far enough away that Vasily's space wasn't invaded, but close enough that he could see the toes of Luke's worn grey sneakers. Still, he didn't look up.

Almost hesitantly, the sneakers moved to the side, and Vasily heard the dull thud of Luke's guitar case hitting the floor, then of the himself man sitting down beside him under the open window.

And then they just… sat like that, for a good while. It was nice. Peaceful, even, sitting in companionable silence. Vasily didn't even have to look at Luke to know that he was wearing that same sappy (endearing) expression that he had whenever he waxed poetic about beauty in music and movement, or some new song he'd learned to play.

"So…" Luke broke the silence. "How did you get in?"

"Fire escape," Vasily muttered to his knees.

Luke hummed appreciatively.

This time the silence was not so peaceful, and the tense expectation for _more _hung in the air.

Vasily lifted his head, staring at Luke somewhat blearily as his eyes adjusted to the light.

Immediately, Luke's eyes softened in something like understanding, and Vasily quickly looked away. His cheek stung from the movement, so he clenched his hands into fists, digging his fingernails into his palms in attempts to distract himself from the pain.

"Hey, now," Luke said, quieter and more gentle than Vasily had ever heard him. He felt his hands pried apart, and he couldn't bring himself to clench them again.

"Look at me, Vasily."

He didn't want to. It was stupid, and childish, but he couldn't help it. He knew Luke had already seen the damage, already probably _knew_, but for the life of him he couldn't kill the small part of him that whispered not to let him see. Not to let him see he was weak.

Not to let him see his tears.

"Vasily." Luke's voice was firmer, now, and he reached over to grasp Vasily's chin with a butterfly's touch, as if Vasily were a fine piece of china about to shatter.

Which was again, stupid, because Vasily had already shattered.

"That's quite the mark." Luke's eyes flitted briefly over Vasily's cheek, which he knew was probably a mess of smeared blood and forming bruises by now. He wouldn't be surprised if there was a handprint seared onto his skin. He could certainly still feel it.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Luke asked, looking Vasily in the eyes.

Not really. Vasily didn't want to talk about his father's angry face, or the shouted words, or the cold anger, or the icy bite of a ring which had followed.

He looked into Luke's eyes. Really, actually looked. He expected to see pity, or some vague sympathy, or a baseless kindness. And really, the kindness was there, a sort of sympathy too, but… Understanding? Respect, even? A mess like him didn't deserve any respect, certainly not when sobbing on the floor of an empty studio.

Vasily swallowed tightly. "You remember I when I told you I was…?" It hurt to even say it aloud now. It was like everything that had snapped into place had been pulled apart and broken again. He couldn't even look Luke in the eyes, anymore.

"Yes."

"My parents— My father didn't take it too well."

"So, what will you do?"

What would Vasily do? Other than cry, dry his tears and move on, burying this dream for himself beside all the rest his father had killed? He didn't know.

"Alright, what do you want to do, then?"

He didn't know.

(Yes he did. But the fear of failure, of disappointment, of _everything_ was suffocating.)

"Can I tell you a story?" Without waiting for a response, Luke relaxed back to sit along the wall beside Vasily, pulling his guitar into his lap.

"A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away…"

Vasily shot him a half-hearted glare.

"Kidding, kidding," Luke laughed. Against his will, a corner of Vasily's mouth curled upwards.

"Really, though, I do want to tell you something." Luke idly strummed his guitar, creating a vague melody foreign to Vasily. "I had this old friend, a long time ago. Back when I was younger, he was my role model. Bravest guy I ever met. Even though he wasn't really all that older than me, he just seemed untouchable, you know? We weren't really close, and I'd always known his younger brother better."

"Where are you even going with this?"

"We'll get there when we get there!" Luke reprimanded, but it was ruined by his laugh. "Anyways, I'd always thought that he was some perfect, godlike individual. Never made mistakes, golden child of a demanding family." He glanced at Vasily out of the corner of his eye, plucking out a faster tune. "A complete lie, of course."

"What, he was into drugs, or something." Vasily still didn't know what he had to do with this.

"No, no, nothing like that. He just didn't give a damn what people thought, even his family. And you know what he did that pissed of his family the most?"

"Had an affair? Became a stripper? Quit his job and moved to Mexico?" Vasily guessed, trying to stifle a grin. If Luke's point was to distract him, it was working.

"Nothing like that, geez! Well, uh, kinda. No, he got married."

Married?

"How did he piss his family off by getting married?"

"Well, he married a man."

And that would be touching, if not for a couple things…

"Did you tell me that just because I'm gay?!" Vasily, lacking any better projectiles, threw his shoe at Luke's head.

"No!" Luke laughed. "Actually, being gay wasn't even the problem. The problem was that there was a feud between their families… I don't know where I was going with this story." He laughed helplessly. "You really do remind me of him, though!"

"And that's another thing, oh wise one." Vasily was struggling to keep a straight face. "Are you bullshitting me? Gay marriage isn't even legal!"

"I never said they got married in the US!" Luke threw the shoe back at Vasily.

Vasily grew silent again, chewing on Luke's words.

"You think I'm brave?" He finally ventured.

"Hell yeah," Luke reached over to ruffle Vasily's already messy hair. "You knew what would probably happen, and you did it anyway, because it was what you wanted to do, and what you felt was right. That's brave."

"So what should I do?"

"Honestly? You can't live under your parents' shadow forever."

Vasily wanted to protest that with his father, he most certainly _could_.

"No, don't give me that look. I won't _let you_, and you would so hate yourself if you let your father control you. Do what you damn please, and if you father can't find it in his shriveled little raisin heart to love you—" Vasily snorted— "then he doesn't deserve you as a son. Got it?"

Vasily nodded, a bit taken aback. "Got it."

"Good… Don't you have school today?"

Vasily groaned.

"Fine, fine, I'm hardly in any position to tell you to get going. Besides, I think all this," Luke gestured vaguely, "merits a day off. Do you have anywhere you can go, since I assume you don't want to go home?"

"Um, Sam's place, probably."

"_Sam_ Sam? Boyfriend Sam?"

"Shut up."

* * *

**_May 17, 2013_**

**_297 Lafayette Street_**

**_New York, NY_**

**_United States of America_**

**_8:30 a.m._**

Glorfindel exited _Le Tournesol_ in something of a daze. Regardless of what most people would think, he was still as useless with comforting people as he was back in Valinor, before anyone had anything they really needed to be comforted about. So that tells you all you need to know about his skills with emotions.

Shitty, that's what.

It was a miracle he hadn't made Vasily cry more. He hadn't lied, though, throughout the entire conversation (unless you counted lies by omission, that is). Vasily really did remind him of Fingon, somehow. Maybe it was the slant of his brows or the cut of his jaw— or maybe just the fey fire in his eyes when he was struck with conviction and purpose.

(That, coupled with the triumphant smirk Vasily had worn after he'd teamed up with the rest of Glorfindel's dancers to dump a whole bucket of glitter on him during the building's repairs, had firmly solidified _that_ impression into his mind. He didn't know where Vasily got that much glitter, but by Arda, if he was as similar to Fingon as Glorfindel thought he was, Glorfindel was probably better off not knowing.)

Without much conscious thought, Glorfindel's feet traced a familiar route through the city, winding across sidewalks and between narrow buildings. Most people would take the subway, he knew, but then again he wasn't most people.

* * *

The face of the dojo wasn't inviting, to say the least. It was dilapidated, but had none of _Le Tournesol_'s vintage charm. The green sign pronouncing it the home of _Green Dragon Martial Arts _was also faded, a corner of it even shorn off— a grim reminder of the alien invasion just one year earlier. The fading bricks were chipped and stained, traced over and again with countless strokes of crude graffiti. There was, however, one mass of spray paint which could have been considered art. Like ivy, green scales of a dragon twisted gracefully around the bricks at the corner of the building, consolidating into the form of a fearsome beast only as it reached the shadows of a narrow alley. The art was so expansive that the roaring maw of the dragon was only visible at the back of the dojo, red eyes glaring pointedly at the rusted backdoor. Of course, it had once been a magnificent mural, but time had faded it just like the rest of the building.

Passers-by don't spare it a glance. Most residents of the area who remember "the good ol' days" will likely shake their heads at the shame of another beloved business closing. Friends of the dojo share a secret smile.

Why?

The _Green Dragon _was anything but dead.

Glorfindel slipped through the rusted door silently, walking down a darkened hallway lined with flickering lights, until he emerged into the main gym, awash with yellow light.

You see, after the attack on New York, of course people noticed that everyone seemed to be nicer, kinder to one another. After all, the same type of thing happens after every disaster. But, oddly enough, a small dojo at the corner of two forgotten streets noticed this: unsolved violent crimes were rising, and people were disappearing left and right. Did the cops do anything? Not for a depressed area like theirs; they had better things to do, after all, some big bank robbery or high profile murder, some new masked vigilante swinging around the streets. So they decided, hey, someone needs to do something about all this.

Yeah, sure. The one thing cops liked less than masked vigilantes is a small time business owner or college kid defending their block. The guys got tracked back to the _Green Dragon_ and that was that, at least for the precinct.

(There were a couple guys on duty, good guys, who had been part of the dojo once upon a time ago. If they saw a few guys coming and going from an abandoned building, no one needs to know.)

Glorfindel hadn't even known about this little underground dojo, a sort of academy for vigilantes. He hadn't known until Reggie, of all people, approached him one day after _Le Tourn_'s lessons started up again. Glorfindel had been interested, shown up, gone through the motions and gave a few pointers, but didn't come back again. They hadn't needed any help of his, and he didn't want to be involved with home-brew vigilantes, at any rate.

Then Reggie came to him again, about a string of strange deaths, seemingly by animal attack, which had hit too close to home.

_"__Please, Luke,"_ Reggie had sad. _"Something got Mrs. Chen, we don't know what to do. Whatever did this, man, it can't be normal. I didn't want to ask you about it, 'cause I know you're hiding something, but I know you did _something _to those damn aliens back at the studio. We need some help."_

Glorfindel had found it hard to refuse, so now here he was. Training civilians to fight monsters, be they human or otherwise. Because however much he tried, Glorfindel had never been able to kill everything that went bump in the night.

"Morning, Luke!" Reggie called from the mats. Many others simply nodded or waved a hand in greeting, going back to their respective exercises.

"Morning," he greeted. "What are we doing today?"

"Sword form, you think?"

"We did that last week, though. What about a some hand-to-hand, nice and simple?"

Reggie looked a bit disappointed, but nodded in affirmation.

"Boss!" He called. "Luke's here, said he'd run through a few things with us."

"I hear ya, no need to shout." Mr. Li straightened. "Luke, pair up." With that, he went back to his own sparring. Gruff as always.

"Ah, but…" Glorfindel trailed off. Everyone was paired up, except.

"Mi amigo!" An accented voice nearly shouted by his ear as an arm was slung around Glorfindel's shoulders.

"Not you again," he groaned.

"Now is that any way to greet a friend, esé!" The ever-present 'Miguel' attempted to put Glorfindel in a headlock— which was easily evaded. Glorfindel shifted his weight in an attempt to throw the faulty Mexican, but his old friend anticipated the move. And so it went.

It was a good thing they were already on the mats, because fairly soon the playful back and forth evolved into an all out brawl. It was probably quite a sight, watching a well dressed dancer go toe to toe with a Mexican in a grey jumpsuit who looked like he'd just crawled out of the sewer.

Glorfindel would be lying if he said he didn't enjoy the challenge.

"I'm supposed to be teaching here, not beating the daylights out of you," he grumbled between punches.

"I think you're the one who needs schooled! You're rusty," grinned Miguel. In a move almost too fast for the eye to track, Miguel dropped under Glorfindel's punch, sidestepping past his guard and using a sweeping kick to send Glorfindel to his back on the mats.

"Ow."

"Something's on your mind," Miguel offered him a hand up. "Out with it."

"Don't you already know, you damn spy?"

"Listen, it is not my fault if people hire me! Now, if I just so happen to hear things… Like, I dunno, plans your new friends have for you… that is none of my business." Miguel crossed his arms, and gave a petty little _hmph!_, the drama queen.

"… What plans?"

"A friendly little round of tailing and interrogation."

"Shit."

"Don't worry about the tailing thing, I know for a fact you lost them on your way here. The interrogation, on the other hand…"

Glorfindel sighed.

"Time to come up with a reasonable backstory, that's all I can say." Miguel shrugged. "I imagine they'll do it next time you're called in."

Glorfindel sighed harder.

It was going to be a long week.

* * *

**Um, hi? Sorry it's taken so long between updates. And I know that this chapter was kinda an interlude of sorts, I kinda used it as a warmup of sorts while I'm still working through some particular plot details for the next couple chapters. Remember that Reviews give me life, so drop your opinion in that funky little box!**

**~FMS**


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